𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳
Whether it manifested as a fleeting specter, casting its ephemeral shadow across the girl's dreams, awakening her on that least expected morning, remained forever veiled, destined to e...
The next day, before shooting, Linda met Guillemette Fournier. Her eyes were large and almond-shaped, the color of root beer. She wore a thin scar on her left cheek, and a silver Cartier on her narrow wrist. She pushed a strand of marcel-waved hair from her face and threw Linda a quick smile.
-You must be Linda.-she had her own way with her french words, played with them in her mouth like cherry chocolates.-You're late, honey, you know that?
-I'm sorry. The traffic was–
-Never explain.-she cut her in this french accent, a slightly guttural r sound.-In fact, talking at all is not really required in this profession. Anything you might have to say, you say through the camera, the image. And hopefully the product. What comes out of your mouth is totally irrelevant. Understood?
-Understood.
She was wearing Prada leather sandals, and a simple dress, yet still looked drop dead gorgeous. Linda felt almost dumb in front of her in her short furry hair. The palms of her hands showed pale pink against her burnt caramel skin. They looked ornamental, as if she came from a place where women dipped hands and feet in pink powder. She didn't smile, and was 10 years older than Linda.
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It took a while before she found the studio amidst the maze of workshops and artist studios that one of Claire's assistants had turned her to. As she entered, "Heart of Glass" was playing from the speakers. A photographer stood at a tall counter, flipping through photos on a browser. He was an older man, definitely in his forties, fit, with curly dark hair. Linda immediately noticed that he worked out a lot - he wore a tight black T-shirt to show off his well-earned muscles. What was his name? Walker, Parker, or something like that... She approached closer and then saw that he wasn't actually looking at photos but was snorting neat lines of cocaine on the glass of the browser. He quickly glanced towards his assistant, a stylishly dressed girl with heavy facial features, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He snorted two lines and handed Linda a rolled-up note. Linda accepted the invitation. The man unrolled a hundred-dollar bill, swept up the remaining cocaine with his finger, rubbed it into his gums, and then pocketed the bill.
-Do you have powder?-he asked.-You're a bit shiny.
She powdered her face in front of the mirror on the wall next to the phone, waiting for the photographer's assistant to set up the lights. The music sounded louder, and Linda had a pleasant, buzzing sensation in her ears. That was some real Colombian cocaine. Guns would have been more than thrilled.
The photographer pointed to her place in the middle on the white paper unrolled from a thick roll on the wall. Linda figured that the same kind of paper covered the gynecological chairs.
-Gimme some attitude.
She knew what Parker or Walker, or whatever his name was, was getting at. Posing for photos was no different from posing for a drawing, or acting on a movie set; it was simply about using her own body to create an interesting composition in space. She imagined a shape composed of herself and immediately transformed that image into a negative.
